The mosquitoes were very troublesome here, so we embarked again, and floated away over the clear deep water of the lake, and finally arrived at Ganderbul, where our horses awaited us. We encamped for the night in a tope of fine trees, and next morning continued our march up the Scind Valley. The river Scind was still in flood, and two bridges had been swept away, and the waters were over the lower path, so we decided to proceed to Noonur, which is only three miles from Ganderbul, and there to halt. The distance being so short, we thought it better to walk, and never did a march seem longer than this one. There was no shade, and we were on a narrow path in the midst of rice-fields. The sun beat down piteously on the marshy ground, from which exhaled a stifling air. At length we arrived at Noonur, which is a pretty, English-looking village, nestling among fruit-trees and chenars. Our four tents were pitched under the shade of one of these nobles of the forest. The horses were picketed at a little distance off, near a walnut-tree, and a tiny stream of clear and sparkling water ran past our encampment. Here we were regularly beset by ‘shikarries,’ the gamekeepers of the valley. We had reached the bear country. I selected one of these men, a nice-looking fellow, who had only one ‘chit,’ or letter of recommendation, but that one was most satisfactory, the writer testifying to all that was said in favour of ‘Jan of Kangan.’ On being asked for his other ‘chits,’ he said they were left in his home in the mountains--‘But surely,’ he added, ‘that was sufficient;’ and so he was engaged, and we were spared the continual announcement, ‘A shikarrie waits.’ Our new gillie made himself useful, bringing us any amount of unripe mulberries. M’Kay also went off into the woods, and returned with basketfuls of cooking pears and apples. We remained at Noonur some days--quiet, dreamy, unremarkable days. One morning our honest gamekeeper was brought before me like a prisoner, guarded by three other greatly roused shikarries. They salaamed most respectfully, and inquired if the sahib had engaged this man, the prisoner, as ‘Jan of Kangan.’ He was not the said Jan of Kangan, for Jan of Kangan was the man who now addressed ‘your royal highness, the provider of the poor.’ This fellow was a common coolie, who had stolen Jan’s ‘chit’--here were the others to prove what he had said was not true. The false Jan was speechless, and had nothing to say. He had not the ready wit of an Irish soldier-servant I once had, whom I found telling a most palpable falsehood. On being afterwards accused by me of saying what was not true, be drew himself up to military attention and said, ‘Plase, sir, I lost my prisince of mind.’